Running
by oneforthehaters
Summary: You're running from all the things you don't want to face in reality. But even in your dreams where you've tried to make everything the way you want, you're still scared to face reality. So you run.


**Author's Notes: Apparently I'm stuck on writing Inception fic in second person POV. I'm sorry if you don't like that, but right now that's what I'm comfortable with. One day I'll give first person or third person a go! :) And this...well, I don't know. It just kind of came to me so I had to write it and then I decided heck! I'll post it and see what happens. As awesome as it is to have people favorite your fics or put them on story alerts, REVIEWS are what make an author happy! So please, if you like this or want to say something about or whatever (nothing mean) then PLEASE DO IT! It's kind of discouraging to post something you actually like that you wrote and to get barely any reviews or hardly any hits. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own ANYTHING. I'm just playing in the sandbox that is Christopher Nolan's perfect mind.**

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You're running.

You're not entirely sure what you're running _from_, just that you're running. And you're running as fast as you can. That seems to be the only logical option at the moment. It feels like your life could end if you don't run.

There's an empty alley up ahead. You haven't heard footsteps behind you in a few minutes so you duck into the darkness to assess your situation. It started in a bar with a fight. Someone insulted your date so you insulted them back and ended up with a black eye. Then you started running because they said they were going to kill you. For some reason you believed them. Or maybe it was the murderous glint in their eyes or the wicked smile curving their lips. Either way, you knew at that moment you had to get out.

But when you think about it, you haven't seen the guy since he chased you out of the bar. So why are you running? You take in the way you're sweating and the way your heart is racing like a hummingbird's wings; you're obviously scared of something.

Someone starts calling your name. You jump, head whipping around towards the sound: they are close. Taking in a deep breath, you push away from the dirty wall and start running again. They keep calling your name so you go faster and faster. It's the only way.

Suddenly you're falling, and you're falling fast. There's a jerk then you're lying on a hotel bed, your name still being called, your heart still racing. You sit upright, gasping for breath as someone's hand grabs your shoulder and squeezes it comfortingly.

"You're okay."

You yank the needle out of your arm and toss it aside. You can feel Eames's gaze still on you, his hand still on your shoulder. With a shrug his hand is gone and you're swinging your legs over the side of the bed and standing upright. After a quick stretch, your only chance to pass off as nonchalant about being caught, you hurry over to the mini-bar in the room and rummage around for the strongest drink available.

Inside you are panicking. You thought you were hiding this so well. Nobody, not even Cobb, knew about your little exploits into the dream world with just yourself and a hand gun. You've been doing it for about a month now. A particularly bad extraction that landed one of your co-workers in the hospital for real resulted in many a sleepless night for you. So you turned to your PASIV briefcase. One slip of the needle and you were _gone_.

Until now, nobody had ever found out your little secret. It's not the fact that you're doing it alone. It's what you are dreaming about that would raise some eyebrows. You've created your own secret world; a world you've always wanted for your own. But things keep going awry, and you've been getting frustrated and sloppy with your secrecy. The past week your dreams have consisted of nothing but running from some shadow that you can't place.

"Are you alright?"

Eames has been silent for a few minutes until now. You hardly even noticed that he's still here. Honestly, you're surprised he hasn't already blown up at you. Out of all the people you know, Eames is the only one that's really _seen_ the dark circles under your eyes and the increase in your coffee intake.

When you don't say anything he keeps on. "How long have you been doing this, by yourself?" You close your eyes and take a drink of…vodka? You're not really sure, but it's strong and it burns on the way down, a brief reminder that you're in the real world.

You spin around, all poise and grace like usual, and turn to the small table the briefcase is set up on. You fiddle with things just to ignore Eames's concerned gaze and the question still hanging in the air. Before you can move away there's a hand wrapping around your wrist and warm breath on your cheek.

"How long, Arthur?"

"About a month now," you whisper. You avoid looking him directly in the eyes because you know, without a doubt, that those eyes and that nose and those lips will match perfectly to the ones in your dreams. Everything about Eames will match the man in your dreams.

Eames's grip on your wrist tightens briefly. "What do you dream about?" he asks quietly. There's a kind of sad lilt to his accent; a change that makes it deeper and absolutely breaks your heart to hear. Like maybe you have betrayed him in some way or form by doing this by yourself, by not letting him in on your little secret.

It hits you suddenly that maybe you're running from _him_. You're running from all the things you do not want to face in reality. But even in your dreams where you've tried to make everything the way you want, you're still scared to face reality. So you run.

"Arthur, darling, answer me." Eames let's go of your wrist and backs away.

You turn to him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. You _can't_ tell him that you create these picture perfect dreams that eventually go wrong because your projection of him eventually blurs the line between what you know is real and what you know is a dream. You've crossed a line and you can't tell him.

"Fine then. I'll be leaving."

You want to tell him to stay. But once again you are scared. You're Arthur: point man, poised, neat, strict. You won't go against yourself because of-because of _feelings_. Before you can make up your mind completely, the door is closing with a soft click and Eames is gone.

And you're left running from your fears again. Except this time you can't wake up.


End file.
